


A Christmas Carol Service

by HolRose



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Appalling Victorian puns, Aspec Friendly, Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Christmas, Christmas Crackers, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Spoiler Warning: A Christmas Carol, The Author Regrets Everything, With apologies to Charles Dickens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21748195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: Mr Crowley and Mr Fell Present: An Entertainment for ChristmasOr: How an Angel and a Demon inspired a Christmas ClassicOr: An Ineffable Christmas Cock-upOr: How Charles Dickens Saved the Day
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 90
Kudos: 65
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	1. Stave One

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a bit of fun for Christmas, although because I am obsessed, there is a bit of angst and kissing. I seem to be unable to write about these two without the kissing. Sorry-not-sorry. It has been difficult to write because of the deeply odd nature of the original, go take a look at it, it's bonkers. 
> 
> Thanks to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett for their wonderful characters who I love so much and who have been such a brilliant inspiration to me for years. Thanks to all in the fandom, you are all awesome.
> 
> This has been edited to correct mistakes and improve dialogue, December 2020.
> 
> Merry Christmas to you all and God Bless Us, Every one!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to our tale.
> 
> We meet a famous author.
> 
> Mr Fell and Mr Crowley have Christmas drinks.
> 
> We meet a miserable merchant.

**A.Z. Fell & Co. Antiquarian and Rare books, Soho, 23rd December 1842**

_God rest ye merry, gentlemen…_

It was nearly Christmas, and a small tree sparkled with glass baubles near the cash desk, of the Soho establishment of A.Z. Fell & Co, a silver angel figure glowing from its topmost branch [1]. Paper streamers were draped from each of the shop’s central pillars, the decorations giving the room a pretty, festive air. There was holly and mistletoe hung around the shop and a poinsettia in a pot tied with a gold ribbon on the cash desk.

Aziraphale liked the festive season, lots of opportunities to do good here and there and plenty of smiling faces about. There was something also about the strength of raw belief at this winter solstice time that enabled him to be more than usually helpful to people without drawing undue notice from them, or censure from his Head Office. The food and drink were lovely too; all in all it was a delightful time of year for a being with the angel’s sensibilities.

The shop bell made its usual gentle tinkling noise and Aziraphale looked up from the book he had been reading. The customer was a well-dressed gentleman, slightly shorter than the angel, with a high forehead and beautifully combed shock of mid-brown hair, parted on the right of his head and hanging in a fashionable style to just below his ears.

“Mr Fell! I was so glad to see that your establishment is open this chilly morning.” The new arrival smiled cheerily and approached Aziraphale with an outstretched hand, which he took, shaking it warmly.

“Mr Dickens, how good to see you again. I understand you have been away, travelling.”

“Yes, I am lately returned from America. It was an exhausting trip, but a rewarding one for me, I appear to be very popular across the Atlantic.”

“I am very glad to hear it. How may I help you today, sir?”

Charles Dickens had discovered Aziraphale’s shop over ten years previously and had become something of a regular, stopping by when he was looking for difficult to find items to consult whenever he was researching various subjects for his writing. The author and the celestial being had struck up a sort of acquaintanceship, the angel approving of the writer as he rarely requested to buy anything, being happier to use the shop more as a resource for his research, picking Aziraphale’s brains when he was looking for something specific. The two shared a love for early printed books and had drunk tea together in the back shop on more than one occasion.

“I am looking for information on the customs of Christmas. When I have finished the novel I am currently working on, I would like to write something celebrating the spirit of the festive season. I was hoping you might be able to help me discover the ancient history of how we on this small island have previously marked Christmastide.”

“I see,” responded the angel, “do take a seat,” he indicated the tapestry chairs sitting by one of the pillars, “I will be but a moment.”

He hurried off into the recesses of shelving further into the shop. “That sounds interesting. You wrote so delightfully about Christmas in your recent adventures of Mr Pickwick and his friends. I am sure anything you produce on this subject will be most edifying.” Aziraphale continued to speak, raising his voice as he searched the shelves for the volumes he was hoping to find.

“I feel there is a need, as well as for entertaining the people, to inform them of the great inequalities that exist in our society at present, Mr Fell. The strictures and continual cruelties inflicted on the less fortunate by the provisions of the New Poor Law are iniquitous and should not be allowed to continue without some kind of protest.”

“I could not agree more, Mr Dickens. The struggles of the less well off in London alone are enough to make a strong man weep. And so many of the wealthy are oblivious, and do not see the need to contribute to any efforts to ameliorate the situation of the needy.”

“You are indeed right, Mr Fell. I would aim to write something fantastical, that would seek to invoke wonder in the reader and encourage them to celebrate the true spirit of Christmas.”

Aziraphale bustled back to the seated author with two books in his hand. They were small volumes, one in a floppy parchment binding, the other in reverse calf, both in beautiful condition.

“These should be of use to you, sir. The first is _The vindication of Christmas_ written in 1652 as a response to the puritan Parliament’s banning of the festival in 1647. It gives remarkable detail regarding how the British were accustomed to celebrating at this time of year and is of great interest. The other is a more whimsical item, produced in 1678, _The examination and trial of Father Christmas_ , a rather satirical look at the personification of Christmas in the form of a trial where he stands to forfeit his life if convicted.”

“These are capital, my dear fellow, you are a positive repository of knowledge!” Aziraphale blushed at the praise, smiling at the writer as he perused the two volumes.

“May I buy these from you, sir?” The angel’s smile switched off, abruptly.

“I would prefer not to lose these particular books from my collection, others perhaps, yes, but not these.”

“I have yet to come across a volume that you were willing to let go, Mr Fell. I shall count it as an extraordinary day when I do so.”

The author’s tone was still friendly, but had an edge to it. Keen to conciliate, the angel was quick to respond. Dickens was a well-loved and popular writer, it would not be a good idea to incur his displeasure in London.

“As it is you, Mr Dickens, you would be very welcome to borrow both volumes. Then you may make whatever notes you need and return them to me at your leisure.” Aziraphale bowed his head, and the smile appeared on the writer’s face once more.

“How very kind of you, Mr Fell, I shall make sure that they are returned to you as soon as I have read and digested their contents. May I take this opportunity to wish you a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year?”

‘Of course, sir, I hope that it is an agreeable one for you and Mrs Dickens and your little ones. I shall look forward very much to seeing you again soon.”

Aziraphale escorted his distinguished customer to the door and they shook hands again before the writer walked into the grey London morning. Aziraphale flipped the sign against the glass of the door to ‘closed’ and turned the key in the lock.

“That’s quite enough of that for one day, now. Some little refreshment for me, I think and then I must turn my mind to what to do about this.” He lifted the purple envelope lying on the table next to his cash register and frowned, taking it with him as he drew down the blinds against the shop windows and made his way into the small kitchen at the back of the premises to set his kettle on the little iron stove there.

***

“I am not getting involved with another one of your harebrained schemes, angel, look what happened last time.”

“It won’t be like that, this is just an ordinary man, he isn’t in the position to… there won’t be another international incident…” Aziraphale looked flustered, still embarrassed about the whole Napoleon débâcle.

“Tell that to the Russians,” said Crowley, darkly.

He had been asleep since around 1815 and had only woken a few months ago, seen the state of humanity in the early stages of the Industrial Revolution and come to the conclusion that they really did not get any better. Men, women and children were employed in factories and down mines working in terrible conditions and being exploited all for profit so that a privileged class could continue to live in unparalleled luxury. Meanwhile, the poor were being persecuted if they had the temerity to ask for help, being driven away from the places where they lived and forcibly marched back to where they were born or incarcerated in workhouses and made to undertake the harshest of labour. It felt as if the advantaged were actively punishing the weakest members of society for the fact that they were struggling. For a so-called Christian society, there was very little compassion and mercy and it all made this particular demon very depressed indeed. Additionally, the state of the nation left him very little scope for his usual line of work, leaving him falling back on making mischief here and there, more to amuse himself that anything else. He had thought to come and check on the angel before deciding whether Victorian Britain was something he could actually stomach or whether more sleep might be a good idea.

Crowley had originally been rather reluctant at the idea of ‘Christmas drinks’ feeling that the whole concept wasn’t sufficiently demonic for him to acquiesce. The angel in question had then gone on to admit that he had been missing his demon friend rather, giving him one of those soft looks that he specialised in, and he had caved, as he usually did. The wine was a fine vintage and he hadn’t much to do at the time, apart from avoiding anything too religious in the festive celebrations and potentially annoying people in the larger shops in the West End as they went about their seasonal gift purchases. This was something that barely required any intervention from him, as most people were tetchy and irritable when shopping at this time of year without any assistance.

“But really, Crowley, he is absolutely appalling, I just don’t really know how to set about achieving what I have been asked to do.”

Aziraphale had woken that morning to find a missive from Gabriel sitting on his doormat. It was on his usual lavender-scented paper in purple ink containing details of his next assignment. He had been most dismayed when he had opened it, the instructions were extremely precise: to encourage an individual living in London to give up his sinful ways, repent of them and live a better life thereafter. The main stricture being that this must be done by example, ensuring that the subject made his choices entirely of his own free will. Since then, the angel had done a little research into the activities of this man, gathering information on his life choices from observation and lightly investigating the thoughts of those around him. The conclusions were not at all flattering to the elderly gentleman in question.

“What is it that he has done that is so terrible, Angel?” drawled the demon who lay half reclined on the small velvet sofa, his long, black clad legs crossed over at the ankles on the arm rest.

“He pays his employees a pittance, keeps them working all hours, never gives to any charitable causes, even at this time of year and is generally unpleasant with everyone. He loves money more than anything else, in fact he is what I would call the epitome of a miserable sinner.”

“Sounds like someone I should approve of then, Angel.”

“Hmm, possibly, on paper, but you should see him Crowley, he takes no enjoyment in anything, there’s not a jot of humour or creativity in his nature, even in the way in which he sins, for goodness sake!”

Crowley laughed at this typically morally dubious outburst from the angel and poured them both some more wine. Aziraphale gave him a look and continued.

“The saddest thing is that his Clerk has a large family, and their youngest child is very sick. If his father were paid more, the child might have a chance, as it is, the future for the little lad is rather bleak, and it breaks my heart to see that - they are good people.”

“Can’t you help them, Angel, you know, a little, erm, intervention?” Crowley wiggled his fingers, sloshing his wine over the edge of his glass.

Aziraphale sighed, gloomily, “There is only so much I can do, I am good with injuries and broken bones but what he has, well, it is something more fundamental, at a cellular level. They call it Pthisis and it can affect any part of the body. To actually cure it would require someone who specialises in healing and I don’t think Raphael is going to be open to a request from one such as myself any time soon.”

He gazed across at Crowley, who was humming and swirling his wine in his glass, deliberately not looking at him.

“And you are not allowed to just appear to him, frighten the shit out of him and tell him the error of his ways, then?”

“No, we don’t really do that sort of thing any more. I know it used to be very much the fashion to appear, inspire awe, and just tell people what they ought to be doing but it hasn’t been policy for a long time now, things have changed. It’s a matter of encouraging.…”

“Free will?”

“Yes, Gabriel has been very clear that nothing like coercion of any kind is to occur. He is to be free to make his own choices. I’m just at a loss as to how I am going to achieve it. I was hoping that you might have an idea…”

Crowley frowned and growled at his companion:

“Angel…”

“Let me show you exactly what we’re dealing with here, come with me tomorrow to visit him, and you’ll see what he’s like,” Aziraphale put on his most appealing expression, “please, Crowley, a little boy’s life could be saved if I can sort this one out, surely that makes it worthwhile, as well as the fact that you would be doing me the most enormous favour…”

In truth, Crowley was of a mind to be a little intrigued about what had Aziraphale so worked up, and his interest was piqued at the challenge that this assignment represented. He liked it when Aziraphale invested in something this personally, it was one of the things that had attracted him to the angel from the very start. Equally, he found it endlessly difficult to say no to Aziraphale when he was tipsy and the angel was being soft and lovable, which was very much the case at this moment.

“You are an emotionally blackmailing little…” Aziraphale smiled in his sweet way, eyes actually twinkling. Oh, he knew how to turn on the charm alright.

“Fine, go on then, I’ll come and have a look at this paragon of sin, but I’m absolutely not going to commit myself to any ridiculous plan that you might be going to think up, this is just out of my curiosity, because I want to.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” the smile upped its wattage somewhat, “I am intending to call upon him to give him a chance to redeem himself and you can accompany me and see what you think.”

“Angel?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Why did everybody hate the toothless organist?”

Crowley had recently been investigating the potential of puns and bad jokes for creating mild demonic mischief. He had hated them in the seventeenth century, but since he had woken, he had realised that they might have potential for use as minor annoyances. He had been seeding them around in the taverns and coffee shops of London for some time and was currently wondering how they might be more fruitfully employed to irritate.

“Is this one of your pun things?” asked Aziraphale .

Crowley nodded, grinning with anticipation .

“Oh, right, let me see now, what do I say again?”

Aziraphale had been hugely wrong footed when Crowley had tried his first joke on him. When asked ‘how does one get down from an elephant?' he had proceeded to give a detailed explanation lasting a good five minutes of the way in which one would approach such a task, being familiar with the manoeuvre having spent time in India in years gone by. At the same time, his mind was deep in contemplation of the etymology of the word ‘pachyderm’. So when Crowley interrupted with the correct response of ‘one doesn’t, down comes from a duck’, the resulting semantic confusion had short circuited the angel’s mind for a few moments before he was able to untangle the sense of the sentence and realise that it wasn’t, in fact, a serious question but rather a play on words, and possibly simultaneously, another manifestation of Crowley’s increasingly bizarre obsession with water fowl. Crowley had merely watched, enjoying the sight of the various stages of understanding flickering across the angel’s features, before realisation dawned like a small sun, shortly eclipsed by an eye roll and a very un-angelic dirty look.

“Ah, yes, I remember now, I have to say, why does everyone hate the toothless organist?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley and waited for the full horror of the punchline to be revealed.

“Because his Bach is worse than his bite.” Crowley’s grin widened and he waggled his eyebrows, delighted at the groan-worthy nature of the jest.

“Oh, that’s… actually, not all that bad, my dear - a musical one.”

“Just for you, Angel.”

This definitely had potential, now if he could just work out a way in which to spread them around more easily. Christmas should be a good time for this, given that people were getting together for parties and family gatherings. He would have to give it some more thought.

***

The following afternoon, the city was deep in fog, the damp air cold and clammy. The angel and demon stepped out of the Soho book shop, looking like negative images of each other. Aziraphale appearing in a heavy cream woollen coat with beige twill trousers and a fuzzy top hat that matched his coat, tartan cravat at his neck. Crowley, in a similar coat, all in black, with fitted black trousers, a shiny silk stovepipe hat and his distinctive smoked glass spectacles. They hailed a hansom cab from Soho to London’s financial district where they alighted and walked the last few yards to their destination.

The fog obscured everything with its spectral shroud. Buildings and people loomed out of it sporadically without warning as they walked along. The gas mantles that illuminated the streets on their high poles were smeared balls of orange light. Shop windows, lit for the season, glowed bright momentarily and then faded along the way as they passed them. There were plenty of people about, the streets were busy, but all sound of carriages and the beasts that pulled them, footsteps and the cries of flower and newspaper sellers around the pair was muffled. A church bell tolled somewhere in the gloom above them with a curiously dead sound.

They arrived at the address they were seeking and walked into a foul-smelling, filthy close.

“Scrooge and Marley,” read Crowley from the faded script above the door to the shabby, rundown property.

“Yes,” replied Aziraphale, “it’s just Ebenezer Scrooge now, Marley died seven years ago.”

“Marley, that name rings a bell,” said Crowley, “Marley, Marley, where have I heard that name before?”

“Never mind that now, here’s someone coming out, let’s go in and ask if the fellow will speak with us.”

A sweet faced, smiling man, seeing the two gentlemen about the enter the office, held the door open for them.”

“Compliments of the season to you both, gentlemen,” he said, cheerfully.

“And to you too, sir,” replied Aziraphale. He nudged Crowley and said in a low voice, ‘his nephew, very nice man, probably over to invite his Uncle for his Christmas dinner, Scrooge refuses every year. Here we are, let me do the talking.”

They walked into the premises, past the front office where a very cold looking clerk sat by a tiny hearth with only smoking ashes in it and through to the larger counting house at the back of the building where the proprietor was busy with a cash box, pen and ink. He was a man in his sixties, cadaverously thin with a pinched, narrow face topped off with a bald pate surrounded by pale straggles of hair that hung down to his shoulders. He held his pointed chin in etiolated white fingers and looked up at them as they entered the room, narrowing his small, black eyes, his facial expression peevish and ill-tempered. Aziraphale removed his hat and bowed and Crowley followed suit.

“Scrooge and Marley’s I believe,” said Aziraphale, consulting a paper that he held in his hand, “have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr Marley?”

“Mr Marley has been dead these seven years,” Scrooge replied.

“We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,” said Aziraphale, presenting a piece of paper to the man that had been enchanted to give the impression of his credentials as a representative of a respectable local charity. Scrooge frowned and shook his head, giving the paper back to the angel.

“At this festive season of the year, Mr Scrooge,” continued Aziraphale, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.

“Plenty of prisons,” said Aziraphale, laying down the pen again.

“ _You what_?” said Crowley. Aziraphale looked round at Crowley and laid a finger across his lips, frowning and shaking his head.

“And the Union Workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned Aziraphale, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“ _Really_?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale put his fingers around the forearm next to him, gripping and shaking it very slightly, saying quietly “Hush, my dear.”.

“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.

“Both very busy, sir.”

“Oh, I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned Aziraphale, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”

Aziraphale was leaning over the desk, with the sweetest of his sweet smiles on his face, silently urging this man to choose a better way of being. Whatever Scrooge was made of, it was impervious to angelic warmth and grace.

“Nothing!” he replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?” This was Aziraphale’s last attempt to persuade.

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas, and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned with my taxation payments: they cost enough, and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can’t go there, and many would rather die!” interjected Crowley, heatedly. Scrooge looked from the angel’s face to the demon’s and sneered.

“If they would rather die,’ he said, coldly, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides, it is not my business.”

“It could be,’ said Crowley, just as coldly, “we are all each other’s business, Mr Scrooge. Compassion, mercy and kindness are the proper business of every one of us. Have you no imagination, you miserable…”

“Please excuse my friend here,” Aziraphale cut in, “he is very passionate about helping the less fortunate, if only everyone would follow his excellent example.”

“It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon gentlemen!” said Scrooge, with the air of a man who had ended the conversation to his own satisfaction.

“And a Merry Christmas to you too you old…” Aziraphale bundled Crowley out of Scrooge’s office before he could finish his sentence, passing by his open-mouthed clerk in the outer office and out on to the foggy street, where they stood, facing each other.

“Now, do you see what I mean?” said Aziraphale.

“What an absolute bastard,” said Crowley, ‘he was infuriating, no wonder you want to do something about him, he’s awful. What was it you were thinking of doing?”

Crowley was grinning now, horrible thoughts of demonic revenge clearly running through his mind, ‘I think you should just smite the old git, that would show him.”

“You know I can’t do that Crowley, and besides, even if it were possible, and it really isn’t Crowley, stop looking at me like that. I could be demoted and stood down from my role here for smiting a human, you know that…”

“Oh, right, yes, we don’t want that, they’d only replace you with some wanker from upstairs like that Michael.”

Crowley remembered the opening of the bookshop and what he had been forced to do to keep Aziraphale here on Earth with him in 1800. It had been fun fooling Gabriel but he didn't want to run the risk of losing Aziraphale again.

“As I was saying,” said Aziraphale, ‘if I did something horrible to him, it would only put his clerk out of work, and that would do nothing to help him and his family. No, we must think of something that will encourage this man to see where he has gone wrong in life for himself.”

“We, Aziraphale? What’s with the ‘we’? I categorically told you that I didn’t want to get involved with any deeply dubious and foolhardy thing you might be planning.”

The angel looked sadly up at him, “You won’t help then? Even for the little boy?”

“Don’t you look at me like that, you monster. Oh, for badness sake, alright, if only to keep you from making a fool of yourself, again.”

“Oh, thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale gave him one of his sunniest smiles, and the demon’s heart lurched a little bit, just like it always did. Why was he never able to resist this adorable bastard?

Crowley grimaced and rolled his eyes back in his head, knowing in his heart of hearts that, for a start, he shouldn’t be doing this _at all_ and additionally, none of these things ever ended well. The pair of them were a walking disaster area whenever they decided to do anything together.

“What are you thinking of, Angel?” he said, in a resigned tone of voice. They began to walk back through the thick, yellow fog towards Soho. Aziraphale spoke animatedly, gesturing with his hands as he talked.

“Well, it’s Christmas Eve, a magical night, when people are much more susceptible to belief in all sorts of things. If he could have some sort of vision or something, that would persuade him to think about how he lives, perhaps that would do the trick,…”

“This Marley fellow, who was he again?” interrupted Crowley.

“Ah, yes, his business partner, Jacob Marley, he was an utterly unpleasant piece of work by all accounts. A ruthless businessman with interests in all sorts of nefarious things alongside the business that he shared with Scrooge”

“I’ve heard of him, he’s one of ours. He’s notorious in Hell, everyone’s heard of him. Interesting.”

“Why, what’s he notorious for?” queried the angel.

“He’s completely unrepentant, they call him ‘the soul that wouldn’t beg’. Even though he’s been punished in all sorts of creative ways, unlike all the other souls that come down to the various circles of Hell, he has never once made any statement of regret about his activities on Earth. He is permanently attached to huge chains wrapped around his body and a series of metal boxes with enormous locks and yet he is adamant that, were he given the choice, he would do it all again.”

“And that’s unusual?” asked Aziraphale.

“Very much so,” replied Crowley, “everyone begs for mercy and promises to repent once they realise where they are and while they are receiving their initial punishment. It’s too late by that time, of course, but they still do it. The minor demons have been running a sweepstake on who can get him to break, but so far everyone has failed.”

“I think I might have an idea,” said Aziraphale, looking sideways at Crowley.

“I don’t like the look of that expression you have on your face right now, Angel,” said Crowley, “it generally spells trouble for anyone in the vicinity, usually me, actually, now I come to think about it.” He regarded the angel, sceptically.

“If you would come back to the shop with me, Crowley, we can discuss how this might be done. I would really appreciate your help, you have such good sense when it comes to planning this sort of thing,” he looked across at Crowley, his eyes a mute appeal.

“Oh all right, Angel, I’ve nothing better to do, but I make you no promises about getting any further involved.” Crowley tried to be firm but had zero faith in his ability to resist being dragged into whatever madness the angel had on his mind. Aziraphale looked pleased.

“We can stop at an inn on the way for refreshments and then make our plan of attack. Thank you Crowley,’ he was beaming again, “This will be fun!”

“Fun, Angel, you have a very odd idea of what constitutes fun,” Crowley sighed and squared his shoulders, looking down with a fond expression at the angel walking next to him.

“Right, let’s get to it then.”

They continued walking and the thick, ochre fog swirled around them, eventually hiding them from view.

[1] The custom of having decorated trees in the home at Christmas became widespread after the marriage of Queen Victoria to her German cousin, Albert, in 1840. Aziraphale is actually ahead of the fashion here, but of course, the Victorian era is the period during which everything about him was bang up to date, so we shouldn’t be too surprised by this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue for the meeting with Scrooge shamelessly stolen from the original and modified a bit because it was too tempting to resist.


	2. A Bookshop Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale have a discussion, Aziraphale tries to help, insofar as he can, and Crowley comes up with the answer to a problem.
> 
> A little bit of angst, never goes amiss, even at Christmas.
> 
> Story proper continues in the next chapter.

**A.Z Fell & Co, Soho, 6.00 pm, 24th December 1842**

_Glad tidings of comfort and joy…_

Aziraphale sat with his tea cup in hand, watching Crowley as he paced around the book shop, running his fingers over the spines of books, lifting things up off the shelves and putting them back again, all the while talking, bouncing from one topic to the next, sometimes hardly finishing one thought before another took its place in his speech. His demon friend was in a mercurial mood. There was something there, something troubling him, and the angel knew of old that it was just a matter of being patient and giving him room to pursue various random topics on his circumlocutory journey towards whatever it was that was occupying his mind.

Aziraphale had felt a keen rush of pleasure that had translated into a blush and the brightest of smiles when the familiar slim silhouette had manifested itself in his doorway a few months ago. Although he kept busy, he harboured a particular fondness for the company that Crowley provided, and if he could ever call himself lonely, it was Crowley, his presence, his lean figure and sharp, beautiful features that was brought to mind. Aziraphale was adept at holding two contrary truths in polar opposition to each other in his thoughts without suffering overly much from the cognitive dissonance that this should have produced. Crowley was his hereditary enemy and his actions were to be foiled at every opportunity. Crowley was his friend, his welfare was important and most of all, he was _loved_. Aziraphale tried not to think too hard about this but he did allow himself to feel troubled when he believed that the demon was upset or unhappy. His angelic nature made it instinctive to offer comfort when he saw distress and he had comforted Crowley many times through the centuries. Quite often, exposed to heartbreak and unhappiness over assignments that had brought them to the same scene of human devastation, they had comforted each other.

Now, telling awful jokes and speaking about aquatic mammals and a particular island in the Pacific Ocean, where there was an astonishing diversity of plant and animal life, Crowley was giving every sign of a demon with something on his mind.

“…tortoises, angel, _huge_ great big ones,” he stretched his arms wide, “that live for hundreds of years, and, and _bright pink_ flamingos, and loads of other weird birds, it’s astonishing!” [1]

He sat down on the sofa and changed the subject again.

“Let me just get this straight, angel,’ said Crowley, “this is what Heaven is into these days, bullying some rich old git into having a conscience? I don’t even know where to start with this, and then there’s this ghost idea of yours…” Crowley hooked an arm over the back of the sofa and looked across at the angel, shaking his head, “a spot of breaking and entering and impersonation?”

Aziraphale felt like he was running out of options, all of the suggestions that he had made so far having been rejected immediately by his supposed adversary on Earth.

“I just thought it might act as a terrible warning, the thing with the chain, you know, rather a visually arresting image,” he said, hopefully, “and the idea that he has forged it through his misdeeds in life, quite unusually imaginative for hell, I think.”

“I’m not doing it, Angel, I can either look like this, extremely dashing and darkly attractive,” Crowley raised an eyebrow while Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “or I can do the snaky thing. I don’t think ghostly is in my repertoire, to be honest…Tell you what, angel, If all the seas were to dry up, what would Neptune say?”

“What? Neptune? But he was the… Oh, Crowley, not another one of these awful things,” groaned Aziraphale, passing his hand over his eyes, ‘“I need to concentrate, not think about Roman gods.”

“No more help till you say it, angel.” said Crowley, the maddening grin back on his face.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley hugely enjoyed teasing him and watching the satisfying range of reactions that this provoked. Most of the time he rather appreciated it as a sign of their easy friendship, but the continuing potential for being tripped up mentally by these pun things was becoming rather wearing.

“Oh, very well then, what would Neptune say, you infuriating creature?”

“I haven’t a notion. Do you sssee what I did there?”

Crowley’s voice was starting to include a sibilant hiss, a sign that he was unsettled. It was his habit to slip into baiting Aziraphale at these times, the pleasure in doing so something that appeared to calm him when he was experiencing feelings that he did not wish to admit, even to himself.

“All too clearly, unfortunately,” said, Aziraphale, snippily, “now, can we get back to planning this thing? I feel like we’re running out of time.”

Crowley plucked a piece of mistletoe off the top of a low shelf behind him by way of distraction, “What have you got this in here for, Angel? Do you know what the humans do when they are standing under it, not very ssuitable behaviour for a book shop, is it now?” He jumped up and sauntered across to Aziraphale with the little stem in his hand, looking at it, a sly smile on his face.

“I am aware of human festive customs, yes, Crowley. I just think it’s pretty, like the holly and other greenery, I don’t expect my customers are likely to be doing anything like that in here.”

Crowley’s face was bare of the smoked glass he wore when he was visible to humans. His eyes were luminous and fully amber with no white sclera showing as he loomed over his friend. Aziraphale met his gaze, looking up at him, anxiously.

“You’ll have to be careful you don’t get kisssed, angel” Crowley leaned down, twirling the piece of greenery in his hand over the angel’s head.

“W..what has got into you today, Crowley?”

“Angel?” another twirl of the sprig of green and milky white in the demon’s long fingers over his head, the voice gentle, “Have you ever kissed anyone, apart from as a formal greeting, I mean?”

Aziraphale shifted uneasily, his face hot. The teasing felt unkind suddenly, all the more so because of course he had thought of kissing Crowley, on many occasions, and had always pushed the thought of it out of his mind, having stern words with himself about propriety and the expected behaviour of a good, obedient, angel. His eyes dropped to Crowley’s mobile mouth curled in a half smile beneath gently mocking eyes and his blush deepened.

“That is hardly any of your business, but if you must know, no, I haven’t, and if I were to do so, I would prefer it if it were a sign of real affection, not some piece of festive frippery.” [2] He didn’t dare ask Crowley the same question, not wanting to know, fearing his own reaction to the likely answer.

Crowley seemed to understand that he was causing the angel some anguish and he moved away. Aziraphale straightened his spine and released the breath that he had not realised he was holding.

“Now, can we get on with this, please?” he huffed, “I must think about the assignment and I would appreciate your co-operation.” 

“Sorry, Angel, I have itchy feet tonight, can’t seem to ssettle,”

Crowley crossed to the Christmas tree, pulled the angel from the top of it and looked at it, thoughtfully. He walked back over to the sofa and sat down with a sigh, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and continued to fiddle with the little figure, turning it over and over. There was a space, and Aziraphale looked across, his eyes soft, wanting to send over some sort of calming balm for his companion.

“Not sure how I feel about thiss,” Crowley’s voice was brittle, “…whole redemption thing.”

Here it was, and Aziraphale exhaled, understanding all at once and feeling a familiar pain on behalf of the demon sitting opposite him. Crowley cleared his throat and looked up at the oculus above them while he continued to speak, a rawness in his voice.

“How is it that some vile piece of work, after spending their whole life doing horrible thingss, can repent on their deathbed and be forgiven for the whole blessed lot, it seemss a bit too convenient to me. It doesn’t take back any of the evil, or make up for the damage, doess it. How is that fair?”

He gestured as he talked, the hissing becoming progressively more noticeable.

“Thiss man we’re trying to help tonight, what about him? How many people has he hurt or worssse, and he’ll just say he’s sssorry and that’s fine, on you go, don’t do it again, there’sss a good chap.”

His tone was bitter, and Aziraphale recognised it immediately. Such reasoning was born of an ancient hurt and forced the angel into an opposition that he was bound to but rarely welcomed. It was a familiar dance between them, the steps of which they both knew only too well. Aziraphale would say what he had to, because that was his role and he could not, in all conscience, escape it, but he would make it clear tonight, that he saw Crowley’s pain, even if it had to be a sense inferred rather than stated plainly. He began to speak:

“He has to _mean_ it though, Crowley. He won’t be forgiven if he isn’t sincere, as for the rest of it, well, it’s - you know - I won’t say it because I know you don’t like it, but it is.”

The word ‘ineffable’ hung in the air between them.

“Well done, Angel, you sssaid it without sssaying it,” Crowley sneered.

“It’s important though, Crowley, what underpins it. Every person is entitled to mercy,” Aziraphale spoke softly, his blue-green eyes fixed on Crowley, “everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone.”

There were times, when the demon was melancholy, or in his cups, or both, he would talk with regret about the past, telling his angel friend how he hadn’t meant to fall, how he had just got in with the wrong people and been in the wrong place at the time, sauntering vaguely downwards from there. It made Aziraphale ache to hear this and left him feeling powerless. He didn’t think Crowley wanted his angel status back, exactly, he would have railed at the strictures and endless unquestioning discipline expected by Heaven, but there were things about being a demon that did not sit well with him. And Crowley was different, nothing like the other demons, he consistently defied expectations of one of the fallen, questioning and bringing his own moral sense to everything he did, twisting what was demanded of him by Hell to create positives in a most undemonic way.

“I am sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale’s eyed him sadly, and Crowley, unable to deal with his pity, looked away. 

The demon was conflicted, glad of the warmth he was receiving but unable to respond to it. So he put down the little paper angel and grabbed his spectacles. Then his eyes were covered and Crowley was swinging from his seat swaggering across to the door and reaching for his coat.

“Anyway, angel, I know what we are going to do, I am going to go borrowing.”

“Borrowing? What ever do you mean?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Who needs a ghost, when I can borrow a soul for the night? It shouldn’t take too long. I’ll meet you outside our offices at around eleven, be discreet, we should try to avoid being seen, so I’ll be in that alleyway, just along Regent Street, you know the one.”

And with that, he was gone, and Aziraphale was alone again, with his thoughts and a chest full of hopeless love and concern for the suffering that Crowley carried. But there was happiness there too; being with Crowley, planning something, working together again. It was what made him happiest of all.

[1] Charles Darwin published his book _The Voyage of the Beagle_ in 1839. Crowley, a big fan of Darwin because of how annoying he was to various religious denominations, read the book straight away and visited the islands described in it shortly afterwards. He particularly liked the flightless cormorant and large variety of boobies, who reminded him of Aziraphale, for some reason.

[2] Later in the century, when he joined the exclusive gentleman’s club in Portland Place, Aziraphale grew rather fond of the kisses exchanged as the traditional ending to the Gavotte. It was all very innocent, much to the disappointment of quite a few of the young men who knew him there. He already knew the dance, of course, having learned it shortly after it was invented in the late 1500s and had danced it at the Court of King Louis XIV at Versailles when he was there on celestial business. When he was imprisoned in the Bastille, he wasn’t dressed like that simply to go and eat crepes, he was actually there for the _dancing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone posted on social media that the message of A Christmas Carol is that the rich require bullying to be nice. This sounded like such a Crowley thing to say, that I decided to write a discussion around it in this fic, because I believe Crowley would have questioned why it was necessary to do such a thing, as part of his ongoing despair at how awful human beings can be all the time. He is such a sweetie for a demon, and of course it leads on to taking about his Fall, because it seems unfair that we can be forgiven for being bastards, but Crowley has to deal with being 'Unforgivable', apart from to one soft angel, that is.


	3. Stave Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes set out on their adventure in foggy London.
> 
> The soul that wouldn't beg.
> 
> Weaponised Angelic Love.
> 
> An unexpected meeting.
> 
> Angels and Brothers.
> 
> Mr Dickens isn't 'nice'.

**Central London, 11.00 pm, 24th December, 1842**

_Angels from the realms of glory…_

_It is Christmas Night, one of the most magical nights of the year, when human belief in the fantastical and marvellous is at its height. The City of London lies under fog, its sprawl, filth and finery spread out under a brooding sky. Its inhabitants go about their business, aristocrat and guttersnipe alike, all held for a few hours within the power of the Magic of Christmas. Its touch comes with a whisper, scintillating like glitter, a glissando of sound that is felt more than heard. For a while, anything is possible and the most unlikely of wishes is likely to come true. It is on this night that and angel and a demon go forth to fulfil a heavenly assignment, and the Magic of Christmas, fortunately for them, is on their side…_

***

Crowley waited in the designated alleyway off Regent Street, just along from the Infernal/Celestial office building. The fog had rolled in over the city again and it was difficult to see much further than a few yards ahead. It was nearly eleven o’clock, the chain-bound figure of Jacob Marley lurked beside him, muttering to itself. It had been easy to persuade the Corporation Office to give him a pass for this particular soul once he had explained that he was going to torment Marley by taking him back to his former place of work. He had been advised that once Marley was up top, his chains would bind him to the Earth so that he would be forced to walk everywhere he was to go. There would be no easy transit for them to their destination.

Marley himself was odious. He refused to engage with Crowley after an initial conversation in which he reiterated his determination never to repent his sins. His voice was a relentlessly upper class drawl and the constant litany of complaints it directed into the air around them was really starting to get on Crowley’s nerves. He had been filled-in on Marley’s multifarious activities when he was alive by the Discharging Demon. Not only was he a covetous, mercenary bastard in his work, he had also been heavily involved in protection racketeering in the East End of London, oversaw illegal loans operations charging extortionate interest in the same area and had connections with some very unsavoury individuals in London’s Limehouse district dealing in the opium trade. There were many vulnerable people in the capital who had Marley to thank for years of unrelenting misery and plenty whose lives had reached an untimely end as a result of his activities. All of this had taken place while the man himself maintained an outward appearance of extreme respectability with his smart townhouse in Westminster and his oblivious wife and children. Crowley had met a lot of unpleasant people in his career of minor wiles and temptations but this one was an arsehole of the first order.

A sinister figure appeared out of the foggy gloom at the top of the alley, wearing a suspicious gaberdine coat, disreputable hat and sporting a hideous wild growth of facial hair. It slouched towards them, its slanted shadow looming horribly.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, in a voice filled with resignation, ‘what’s with the,” he waved his hand in the air around his jaw, “whole _teeth_ thing?”

“Crowley!” squeaked the angel “how did you know it was me?” His voice was rather distorted around the improbable dental work he had manifested.

“Oh, I don’t know, a wild stab in the dark?” said Crowley, eyes rolling behind his spectacles. It was astonishing, the angel looked extremely strange and yet, at the same time managed, in the innocence that surrounded his attempt at deception, to remain disarmingly cute.

“ _I’m_ i _n disguise_ ,” he said, in a hurt tone, “you said it would be best if no-one knew I was here with you and I thought it might be a good idea to look different from how I normally do.”

“Yes, angel, good effort, but I think anyone from either of our sides would be able to sense what we both are if they noticed us. We need to get moving,” he indicated Marley beside him, “he’s Earth Bound, so we have to walk there. Do change, Angel, there’s no need for you to spend the entire night looking like _that_.”

“Oh, that is a bit of a relief, if I am honest.” The angel changed back into his customary clothing with a flamboyant wave of his arm and straightened the tartan silk cravat at his neck.

“Is this Mr Marley? Good evening, sir.”

“Don’t waste any of your civility on this one, angel,” said Crowley ‘he’s most definitely beyond redemption.”

“Ha, don’t you dare speak to me you hellspawn,” replied the reedy, fluting tones of the damned soul, “I refuse to converse with one such as you. Good evening to you, sir,” this was directed at Aziraphale, “what manner of being are you and when can I return to my station in Hell? I did not request this outrage upon my person.”

“What I am need not concern you. Suffice to say that we are going to visit an old friend of yours, where you can be of assistance to us by speaking to him. It will not take long and we shall soon have you back from whence you came.”

“Whatever it is, I won’t do it. I don’t wish to speak to anyone of my former acquaintance, I cared for none of them.” Marley folded his arms, shut his eyes and turned away, his chains and cash boxes shifting and clanking around him as he moved.

“Surely you might be persuaded to help an old friend,” argued Aziraphale, “he is in sore need of your example, to steer him away from the fate that has befallen you.”

“People are responsible for their own fate, I don’t believe in charity,” snapped Marley, “everyone deserves what they get in life, if people suffer, they only have themselves to blame, it is not up to me to answer for it.”

“I’ll see to it that you are lined up for the worst of torments, if you don’t do as we ask. Duke Hastur is always open for a new challenge, I am sure that he would find you very interesting, if I were to bring you to his notice,” hissed Crowley, regarding the chained figure with no little disgust.

“You don’t frighten me, demon, let them do their worst, pain is of no consequence to me, I have no regrets concerning my life, I loved every minute of all of it. Hate is something that has always suited me, I do it very well.”

“What about love?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft.

“Love? What of it? I don’t believe in it, it’s just something people invented to give them an excuse to indulge themselves. Show me love and I’ll show you selfishness, greed and lust,” the soul of Marley sneered.

Aziraphale advanced on the muttering, chain-bound figure, a determined look on his face.

“I am a being of pure love, what if I passed some of it into you, what if I told you that I could come over there and fill you up with love, and it would burn you, far worse than hellfire, I suspect. How would you feel about that?” He gestured with his hand and motes of gold light tumbled into the air around the spirit, sweetening the atmosphere with an intense feeling of love.

Marley grew much paler suddenly ’N-no, don’t, I..no, don’t do that, I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, you mustn’t …I…”

“Alright,” said Aziraphale, smoothly, “I won’t do that if you promise to speak with your friend as we have asked you to, how does that sound?’

The creature swallowed and meekly nodded its head.

“Good, let us get going then, follow us, and we shall be on our way.” Aziraphale began to walk in the direction of The City, Crowley catching up with him.

“ _Weaponised angelic love_ Aziraphale?” Crowley had a very strange look on his face, a mixture of horror and fascination.

“Let’s not get into that now, it’s not something I would be very happy about doing but it is technically possible, yes. Don’t look so horrified, Crowley, you are aware, I take it, that angels can be merciless. I would personally rather not be, if you must know,” Aziraphale was blushing, ‘the main thing is that it was effective, so let us not talk of it further.”

He marched on and the angel and demon made their way towards London’s financial district, the rattling figure of Marley trailing along disconsolately in their wake.

***

They were not far from their destination when Aziraphale was almost knocked over by a figure of a man who was in front of him suddenly, striding out of the fog, gaining solidity as he came.

“Oh! I do beg your pardon…” he stepped sideways to avoid hitting the angel and his voice lifted with recognition, “Ah! Mr Fell, how extraordinary to see you here.” The man, wrapped in a greatcoat, raised his hat with a genial smile.

Charles Dickens, the well-known author, was in the habit of walking for miles through the streets of the capital at night. Sleep frequently eluded him and he found that the walking encouraged his creative spirit. So while he walked, he plotted and refined his prose, polishing phrases, speaking aloud to himself on occasion in the fruity tones that the London intelligentsia had come to know well from the popular public readings of his published fiction. He was currently working on the latest instalment of his novel Martin Chuzzelwit and had been wrestling with a particularly knotty plot issue when he ran into his book shop owner acquaintance.

“Get rid of him, angel” whispered Crowley, “he won’t be able to see Marley, just say hello and tell him we’re in a hurry.”

“Ah, Mr Dickens, my friend and I, um, we were just returning from a Christmas soirée. I hope you are well, and that the books are proving helpful, er…” Aziraphale’s voice died away as he followed the gaze of the author. Dickens was looking past the duo to the forlorn figure of Marley behind them.

“Good Heavens! What the devil is that?” Dickens stared at Marley, aghast.

“Erm, you can see him, then?” Aziraphale asked, in a small voice.

Dickens was a writer, and a very good writer, at that. He spent much of his life seeing things that were not, strictly speaking, real. When he wasn’t doing this, he occupied his time writing down descriptions of those things, so that other people could read what he had written and share in the literary hallucinations. This is, essentially, what all writers do. There was no chance that he wasn’t going to be able to see a spirit from the infernal regions walking about in London on Christmas Eve, not a chance in Hell.

“Yes, I see him very well, what in God’s name is he?”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, wringing his hands in front of him, “a man in fancy dress? From our party? Would you believe that?”

“I can see _right through him_ , he smells _very strongly_ of sulphur, and he is covered in _enormous_ chains and locked cash boxes. Explain yourself, Mr Fell.” said Dickens, in his sternest voice.

“Ah, right, well, erm, you see… my friend here can elucidate exactly what is going on,” said Aziraphale very quickly, indicating Crowley beside him.

“Oh no you don’t, angel, this isn’t my mess. You explain to…?” He gestured at the figure in front of them, raising a questioning eyebrow. The author stepped towards him.

“Dickens, Charles Dickens, author and journalist, pleased to meet you.” Dickens put out his hand and Crowley shook it. They both turned and looked at Aziraphale.

“Right,” said the angel, looking awkward, “this is awkward, if I tell you what we are doing, may I ask you to keep it quiet and go on your way, please, sir?”

“I will promise you nothing of the sort at this juncture, please go on with your explanation, I’m all ears,” said Dickens, tapping his foot, his arms folded in front of him, waiting.

“Well… we are angels,” said Aziraphale in a rush, “having taken human form to do a good deed on this holiest of nights. This man is a spirit we are taking to speak with his living friend to try to persuade him to give up his sinful ways and walk in the path of righteousness…”

“You’re an…angel…?” said Dickens, faintly, his jaw hanging open.

“Yes, I and my brother here…” Aziraphale stepped up to Crowley and placed an arm about his shoulders, pulling the demon to his side, “…are on Earth to do good this Christmas Eve. Erm. Be Not Afraid…” Aziraphale smiled, nervously.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s ear and hissed “ _Angels, eh_? _Brothers_?”

“ _Um, ah, well, yes, technically_ , y _es, we are. Hush now, please, and go along with it, we can’t tell him what you are, he’ll spontaneously combust. He’s a very pious man, when it suits him_ ,” whispered Aziraphale, quietly, through a desperate, toothy smile.

Crowley continued to look steadily at the side of Aziraphale’s face, while the angel in turn only flicked his eye sideways, seeing that he was being watched and refusing to turn his head to meet the demon’s gaze, inscrutable, as he knew it would be, behind the rectangles of smoked glass. There was a charged moment, then Crowley recovered himself and a manic grin spread across his face, he turned and bestowed this on the stunned writer in front of them.

“Yes, indeed” he stepped aside from Aziraphale and made a graceful, swooping movement of his arm towards the angel and then to himself while he spoke, “This is the Angel Aziraphaleand I -am the Archangel Raphael! Fear Not, and all that sort of thing.”

The grin persisted despite the urgent hiss of “ _Crowley_!” from the angel beside him.

“Great Scott!” said Dickens, “How extraordinary, I can hardly believe that I am in the presence of…”

The writer looked stunned and stood there for a moment, musing to himself as if in shock, “A. Z. Fell, yes, I see, very good, although it works much better if you say it as an American citizen would, but still, very amusing…” he visibly shook himself out of his reverie and looked directly at the two figures in front of him

“Right. I. Want. In.” Recovery complete, his expression had changed to one of almost feral interest.

“In?,” said Aziraphale, weakly, “what do you mean, in?”

“I’m coming with you, I can’t pass up a chance like this, I want to see what you are going to do. So yes, I want in.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t possibly have that, it would be, erm, dangerous, indeed…”

Aziraphale looked desperately at Crowley who merely continued smiling. It was another disaster, yes, but it seemed to the demon that this one might be rather amusing.

“See here, sir, I have had my suspicions about you for a while,” said Dickens, “Your book shop… you don’t actually sell anything, do you? I am sure there would be people interested in how you manage to keep that establishment going…”

Aziraphale quailed and looked shocked.

“…if you insist on being difficult with regard to this issue, I shall personally see to it that your business is investigated by the City of London Corporation. I have a lot of influential friends there. You won’t be able to trade, or appear to be trading, if you haven’t got your licence, now, will you?”

Dickens hadn’t become a successful journalist without a certain amount of ruthlessness in his makeup. He was determined that he wasn't going to be left out of whatever was happening this Christmas Eve and he had no qualms about putting these two rather odd looking celestial beings under a certain amount of pressure to achieve this aim.

“Well, really!” gasped Aziraphale, “are you threatening me, Mr Dickens?”

“Yes, Mr Fell, I absolutely am. Now, shall we just get on with things? We have spent long enough standing here, I am sure your spirit friend and the lucky recipient of this night’s work should not be kept waiting any longer.”

“I’m no friend of his,” interjected the reedy voice of Marley.

“Shut up!’ said Crowley and Aziraphale in unison. Aziraphale turned back to the writer

“Oh, very well,” he said, tight lipped, “You give me little choice, sir. Come along then, perhaps you may be of use to us, you have an uncommon understanding of human nature, after all.”

“Thank you, sir, for the compliment,” said Dickens, smiling.

***

**Cornhill, The City of Westminster, 25th December 1842**

_’Tis the season to be jolly…_

Ebenezer Scrooge lived above his work premises in the same dreary alleyway on Cornhill, in the City of Westminster. The unlikely quartet of an angel, demon, one of the damned and a human author made their way into the unlit close off the alley, groping to find their way in the gloom.

“Let there be light,” said Aziraphale, and a pale ball of golden luminescence hung above them, allowing them to see the black door that led to the stairs giving access to Scrooge’s dwelling.

“Goodness!” said Dickens, reaching up to touch the glowing orb, “remarkable!”

“Please,” said the angel, “best leave that be, Mr Dickens. Now, before we go in, we need to run through what we are going to do.”

“Forgive me,” said Dickens, smirking at his own joke, “may I have some background information on what you are doing here, please? I feel I will be able to take part more effectively if I know what your aim is in this exercise.”

“Right,” said Crowley, ‘I’ll keep it short. Upstairs here in this bleak house is our mutual friend, Mr Ebenezer Scrooge. He is, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit of an old curmudgeon, and if he doesn’t mend his ways, he is going to Hell, and the youngest child of his Clerk, a worthy man who has experienced much in the way of hard times, so I am told, will die. So, we are going to show him what the effect his actions have on others, and encourage him to use his free will to change his behaviour. We have great expectations that this will be successful and that we will all get to go home in time for a nice Christmas breakfast. Get it?”

“Inspirational,” said Dickens, getting out a small notebook and scribbling in it, furiously.

***

They were inside the building, on the ground floor where there were storage rooms, filled with barrels and empty crates from Scrooge’s business. Aziraphale had opened the warehouse door with a minor miracle, Crowley leaving Marley outside in the yard so that his constant stream of complaints would not disturb them as they worked out what they were about to do.

“How, exactly, do you propose to teach this fellow his life lesson?” asked Dickens of Aziraphale.

“I am going to appear to him and show him the hardships that surround us all, here in this city, and by doing so, encourage in him some compassion. My, er, brother here is going to explain to him the rigours of Hell’s torments, using that poor spirit who is with him as an example, to remind him what will await if he does not alter his behaviour.” Aziraphale responded.

“Hmm,” said Dickens, “speaking as a writer, I think it lacks narrative drive.”

“Narrative drive?” said Aziraphale, “it’s a moral lesson, it doesn’t need _narrative drive_!”

“My experience, Mr Fell, if I may still call you that, is that people are more inclined to take a lesson if it is delivered to them in a subtle manner. The approach that I take in my writing is first and foremost to provide a gripping story with a strong narrative arc. Then the message which I wish to convey is intertwined with this story and nature of the characters in such a way that the reader finds themselves absorbing it without really noticing. It has worked for me many times over; I satisfy the human need for a story and the demands of society and the church that those stories be improving ones.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale “and I must say, sir, that I myself have enjoyed your writings very much.”

“If I may break up this mutual appreciation society,” said Crowley, “what are you thinking of? It had better be something within our, erm, scope and we need to get on with it, it’s past midnight already.”

Dickens sat on a barrel and surveyed the assembled company “I was thinking of the books that you were good enough to lend me, Mr Fell, the idea of the personification of Christmas that they describe. What if we each introduce ourselves as one of the ‘Spirits of Christmas’? Marley there can give his piece to introduce us and then we can speak to the fellow one by one, each of us as a different spirit. You, Mr Fell, an angel, can ask him about his past. He hasn’t become who he is without being influenced by what has happened to him previously, yes? Perhaps if he could be encouraged to look at his past life differently, he might be persuaded to take a lesson from it.”

Crowley nodded, “Sounds like a plan.” Aziraphale was silent, listening intently.

“Then I,” continued Dickens, “could appear to him as the personification of Christmas today, perhaps as Father Christmas, as described in the trial book you lent me. That way, I could speak to him about the good feelings that people share over the festive season and remind him of those less fortunate than himself.”

“But you can’t get involved in this,” said Aziraphale, dismayed at the suggestion, “this is our job to do, I thought you only wanted to watch.”

“Why not, angel?” said Crowley, “he’s likely to know much more than we do about what humans do for Christmas, he is one. You know we tend to get things wrong,” he looked at Dickens, “we do get things wrong at times. You people are quite complicated when you get right down to it. I get a bit lost sometimes, and he definitely does.”

Aziraphale frowned and then decided not to waste time being offended at this, besides, he had to acknowledge that Crowley was right in what he was saying; they didn’t entirely understand what it was to be human.

“I concede that you may have a valid point there, erm, _Raphael_.” He made a face at Crowley who raised his upper lip and sneered back. “Yes, Mr Dickens, do, by all means take that role, if you are content to do so.”

“Splendid,” said the writer, pleased at the prospect, “And you,” he indicated Crowley “as you don’t look in the remotest bit angelic, and I have my gravest suspicions as to what you really are, you can be the spirit of what is to come, and speak to the gentleman about eternal damnation. I have the feeling that you will do so uncommonly well.” The look on the writers face was rather sanctimonious.

“Oh, really Mr Dickens,” protested Aziraphale. He felt bad enough about how Crowley must be feeling after his unfortunate decision to call him an angel earlier, “please do not speak to my brother in that way, he…”

“I think we can dispense with the _brother_ thing, angel.” Crowley looked at the author, “I think he’s more than capable of handling this.”

He walked across to Dickens, extending his hand, “Name’s Crowley, I was an angel once, don’t want to discuss it further, just an associate, loosely speaking, of Aziraphale’s, nice to meet you, writer person.”

Dickens looked at the hand, warily at first and then firmed his lips and shook it “I won’t ask then, although I do know that…”

“Yes, well, best you don’t ask, thanks all the same.” Crowley spun on his heel and walked out of the warehouse, “I’ll go and fetch the miserable wretch from outside, back in a tick.”

“Excuse me one moment, Mr Dickens.” Aziraphale hurried outside after Crowley.

He found the demon standing in the archway of the little yard in front of Scrooge’s shop door. Marley was tucked into the shadows of the yard muttering to himself as usual. He walked up to Crowley and touched his arm gently.

“Crowley, I am sorry, he put me on the spot, I couldn’t think of what else to say.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, angel, ’s fine” He continued staring into the swirling fog.

“Well, I am sorry anyway, for bringing it up, the whole angel thing, it was tactless, I just didn’t know how else to get him to understand, what we are, I mean”

“I know, Aziraphale, angels are more acceptable than demons to the general human populace, I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like being reviled, or the fact that they recoil at the idea that they are in the company of an impure creature. I’m used to it, sure, but when it comes up unexpectedly, it, you know, stings a little.”

“I do know, and I am sorry.” He paused, and then decided to speak again. “If it helps, I don’t see you as reviled or impure, you’re just you.” He squeezed Crowley’s arm gently, walked back to the warehouse door and went inside.

***

Dickens pinched himself, even for him, this was a lot to take in. He was in a warehouse in the City with an angel and, probably, a demon, and one of the damned, and was about to take part in something approaching a morality play to save a man’s soul. He was slightly surprised that he wasn’t more frightened or upset but the main emotions that he felt at that moment were curiosity, tinged with a lot of wonder and what he recognised as a hefty topping up of his religious faith. Most of all, he was enjoying himself, aware that he was definitely going to write about this as soon as he could.

Crowley returned, leading the ever complaining Marley by one of his chains. The grin was back.

“Mr Dickens, tell me, of all Shakespeare’s characters, who killed the most hens?”

“I beg your pardon? Oh, it is a witticism, I see, aha, I don’t know Mr Crowley, who did kill the most hens?” smiled the author.

“Macbeth, for he did murder most foul.” The grin continued, relentlessly. “And why is a demon riding a mouse like to one and the same thing?”

“Ah, another,” the writer’s smile took on a strained air, ‘Why…?”

“Because it is synonymous,” interrupted Crowley, “a seasonal one now, sir. Why is a Christmas pudding like the Atlantic Ocean?”

“I really cannot say,” murmured the author, shrinking back under the onslaught.

“Because it is full of currents.” Crowley was advancing, a demonic aura clearly discernible about him.

“Please, enough, now,” said Dickens, who was starting to feel somewhat alarmed. Neither of these people were entirely comfortable company, he realised.

“Just a little festive fun, sir, nothing wrong with that, I believe, is there?”

“Really, my dear,” murmured Aziraphale, coming to stand between the two and looking at Crowley, who raised an eyebrow, and backed off.

“Right, time to get us all upstairs,” said Crowley, “I’ll do the honours, angel.”

He grabbed Dickens’ hand, much to the author’s initial dismay and drew his other hand up sharply, snapping his fingers as a finishing flourish to the movement. The author, spirit and demon found themselves in the dusty hallway of Scrooge’s flat, the angel joined them a moment later. Dickens staggered a little, then regained his balance and looked around him. It was a bare and dreary sight, worn carpets and a few sticks of furniture, not what anyone would have expected the home of a successful and rich businessman to be like.

“You, Marley, you know what to do, make sure you do it with style,” threatened Crowley, pushing the lanky spirit in the direction of what they had ascertained was Scrooge’s bedroom door.

“I want it known that I am doing this under protest, I didn’t ask to come here and I am not happy…”

“Mr Marley, do I have to come over there?” said Aziraphale, a threatening note in his voice.

Marley paled and looked nervously across at the angel.

“No, I would prefer it if you didn’t,” he whined.

“Go to it then, there’s a good chap,” Aziraphale’s voice softened as he looked at Crowley, “the best of luck, my dear.”

Crowley gave a wolfish grin, and shoved the damned spirit ahead of him forcefully as he snapped his fingers again, making Scrooge’s bedroom door fly open with a crash.

“Get in there Marley, and start moaning, if you know what’s good for you. Rattle those chains while you’re at it, that’s the spirit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone objecting to the fact that Dickens is a bit of an arse here, take a look at what he did when he separated from his wife with regard to her access to their children, and get back to me. Crowley and Aziraphale would definitely not have approved.
> 
> All jokes are genuine Victorian ones, awful, aren't they?
> 
> This iteration of Jacob Marley is based on the UK Conservative politician, Jacob Rees-Mogg. I make no apologies, the man is repulsive with Victorian-style bigoted views that would make Dickens weep.


	4. Stave Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Demon loses a bet.
> 
> A minty treat discussed.
> 
> Mr Dickens apologises
> 
> An Angel tries his hand.
> 
> A festive figure features.

_Angels we have heard on high…_

Crowley emerged, alone, about half an hour later. Things had not really gone to plan. At first, Scrooge had thought that Marley was a dream, describing him as the product of indigestion he was suffering from the rather unsatisfactory meal he had eaten earlier. Then the wretched Marley had refused to play his part, avowing unequivocally that he had no regrets about what he had done during his time on Earth and, in fact, that were he to have his time over again, he would do everything in exactly the same way. It was clear that neither of the two men had liked each other and the fearful vision of Marley’s soul did not appear to move the elderly Scrooge, who, at the end, was still refusing to believe the evidence of his senses. Crowley had sent the by now incensed Marley straight back to Hell and briefly explained to Scrooge about the three spirits that were to appear to him after one o’clock before leaving.

“That went well,” Crowley said, drily to Aziraphale when they were convened in a small room down the hallway to wait until one o’clock came round, “obnoxious little git.”

“Which one?” said Aziraphale.

“Both of them,” said Crowley, “I sent Marley back, he remains unrepentant, as you heard. Bang goes my side bet with Berith.”

Crowley had a wager with the demon of human malice, the loser of which would be responsible for overseeing there next human war in Europe. Crowley just hoped that it wouldn’t be Russia, again, as he had not at all enjoyed watching starving French soldiers eating their own boots the last time [1].

“What’s a humbug?’ asked Crowley, "is it an insect?" Dickens was about to speak when Aziraphale answered

“It’s a type of boiled sweet, with black and white stripes,” he paused, his face wistful, “they’re minty. I quite like them.”

“It’s just that Scrooge seems to think that Christmas is one,” said Crowley, “I had no idea what he was on about half the time.”

Dickens sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Oh dear, I hope I can find a way to show our subject where he has gone astray,” said Aziraphale, sounding worried.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, angel, you know what you want to say, it’ll be easy, you’re very persuasive, when you want to be.”

“Oh, thank you, Crowley, I shall certainly try.”

“Can I come in with you?” asked Dickens.

“Why?” Aziraphale was horrified, “I thought you only wanted to listen in.”

“I want to see what goes on, you can’t deny me that,” the writer smiled thinly at the angel, “consider that lovely book shop you run, Mr Fell, you wouldn’t want to have to relocate, now, would you?”

“Blackmailing an angel, Mr Dickens? That is not the behaviour of a gentleman.” Crowley paced around the other man, a faint air of menace emanating from him, “perhaps you would like to tell me, what the difference is between a sycophant and a lover of hot condiments.”

“Mr Crowley, I really must request that you desist with this interminable cracking of witticisms!”

“No idea? One curries favour, the other favours curry.” Crowley was enjoying himself, this really was a nice piece of mischief. He looked at the outraged face of the author and smiled.

“Enough, you two,” said Aziraphale, tutting and rolling his eyes, “this is going to be a complete nightmare if you don’t both start behaving. You,” he pointed at Crowley, “stay here and think about what we are going to do for the last spirit’s visit. Mr Dickens, if you will insist on this, you must remain entirely silent, whatever happens.”

Dickens rubbed his hands together, “Capital!”

Crowley smirked at the angel. He did love it when Aziraphale showed his bossy side and took charge. He was hilarious when he became snippy.

Aziraphale turned again to the writer, speaking crisply “I will have to change now myself. This is generally the point at which we reassure people that they need not be afraid. Do cover your eyes if you wish to.”

Dickens, his writer’s soul constantly desperate for new information, gritted his teeth and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the conventionally dressed, unthreatening figure of the antiquarian book dealer that he had known for ten years, waiting to see what would happen.

There was another gesture, an arm raised and a graceful arc of fingers. A bright glow permeated the hallway suddenly and Dickens was aware of a soft susurration and a feeling that the air pressure around him had changed. His sight was temporarily obscured by the after images from the sudden influx of light. He screwed up his eyes and shook his head slightly to clear his vision, and when he looked again, there was a shining figure standing in front of him. The angel’s coat, waistcoat and trousers were gone, replaced by a simple white robe with bright sigils gilded along the sleeves and down each side. His pale golden curls and rounded face were glowing with ethereal light and while the features were essentially the same, they appeared timeless, the expression beautifully beneficent and the eyes limpid and unspeakably old. Most magnificent were the snowy white wings, semi-folded behind the figure’s back, glinting as they shifted and trembled with the angel’s movements. He felt awe, and yes, a suggestion in his spine that fear might not be an inappropriate response. Under the gaze of the angel he knew he was _seen_ and although there was kindness there was also power, and if it were to be found necessary, judgement.

“Oh!” said Dickens, looking at the celestial being in front of him, taking in what he was actually seeing. “Ahh, erm, I’m sorry.”

He felt suddenly that he had done something rather unseemly in pressuring him, in saying anything untoward to him at all, in fact.

Aziraphale fixed him with a knowing look, saying softly “It’s alright, Mr Dickens, I forgive you.”

Dickens had the good grace to look rather ashamed.

Crowley broke the silence, “Nice wings, angel, haven’t seen them for, ooh, ages now.”

“Too much, do you think?” Aziraphale asked, “I was thinking I might dispense with the wings, they do make it hard to manoeuvre inside, especially around corners.” He folded his wings and they faded from view.

“I’d lose some of the glow as well, Angel, we don’t want him having a heart attack, he didn’t look that healthy to me just now, very pale, he was.” said Crowley, walking around the angel with an absorbed look on his face, assessing the sight. He had forgotten just how lovely he was like this and wanted to store it up in his memory.

Outside, the church clock struck one.

***

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, deflated. He and Dickens, who looked concerned, had left Scrooge’sbedroom and joined Crowley down the hallway. Aziraphale changed back into his customary attire with a casual wave of his hand.

“Well that… began Crowley.

“… went down like a lead balloon.” finished Aziraphale.

“Bollocks,” said Crowley, “people, there’s no accounting for them.”

Scrooge, after being shown scenes from his past life, had merely bawled his eyes out, claiming that if he wasn’t a nice person, it was entirely because he had not had a happy childhood, his sister had died and his first love had jilted him. He was adamant that, because of this, all the bad deeds he had previously done were not his fault, and he had nothing whatever to repent.

“I disliked making him weep,” said Aziraphale, “I felt rather sorry for him. He did have an unfortunate start in life. Oh dear, I feel that I have caused more harm than good.”

“Plenty of people have a bad start in life, angel, they don’t all let it make them lose their decency.” growled Crowley.

Aziraphale studied Crowley’s face for some time, “You are right, my dear,” he responded, thoughtfully, “some use the experience of their misfortunes to increase their compassion and understanding, of course they do.”

Crowley looked away, but Aziraphale could see the hint of pink, dusting his cheeks.

“My turn, I believe,” said Dickens, “Let me try, I think I may be able to reach him.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Crowley, “are you going to ask us to take you anywhere?”

“I’m going to do what I do best, and that’s to tell him a story. It’s Christmas Day, a time of magic and belief, I will speak and let him see the pictures in his own head. I have been doing this for some time now at my public readings, I hope it will work, I think it may.”

“What do you need us to do?” asked Aziraphale.

“Can you provide a costume, Mr Fell?” asked Dickens “I would not like to be recognised when I do this, and my face is rather well-known in London.” He preened a little when he said this.

“Yes, of course, I can alter your appearance sufficiently so that Mr Scrooge will not recognise you, and supply a robe. We may have to pad you out a little if you are to be Father Christmas. Do you have an idea of how you would like to look?” asked Aziraphale.

“A green robe trimmed with white, I think, and a hat, similar. That was what the book described, at any rate.” replied the author.

Aziraphale gestured with his hand and a rich green robe made of heavy silk, its edges trimmed with white fur enveloped the writer. He felt his body become elastic suddenly and then change, his centre of gravity altering and his torso thickening and growing weightier. His face twisted and a full beard graced his chin and upper lip. The hat landed on his head with a soft thud.

“I feel a sudden urge to laugh. _Ho, Ho, Ho_. How do I sound?”

Aziraphale smiled, “Positively Shakespearean, my dear fellow. Is there anything else you require?”

“Just some set-dressing to go with my costume, light the fire, some decorations, the appearance of a plenitude of festive fare, and I’ll take it from there.”

[1] He was not happy, eleven years later, to find himself in Balaclava watching English soldiers starve and die of dysentery, nothing to do with him, just military incompetence, as usual. At least the knitwear was warm, that was definitely an improvement.


	5. Stave Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr Dickens tells a tale.
> 
> An angel quotes Mr Blake.
> 
> A demon wears a disguise.
> 
> There is magic by gaslight.
> 
> Mr Scrooge meets an old acquaintance.
> 
> Mr Thomas Smith is inspired.

_The holly and the ivy…_

The scene was set. A roaring fire, conjured up by Crowley, who was glad to do so as he was freezing, crackled in the approved festive manner in the fireplace. The room was draped with greenery: holly, its blood-red berries winking in the firelight, ivy, crisp leaves trailing down the walls, and mistletoe, suspended from the cornices and gas mantles, a profusion of milky berries at the heart of each sprig. A long table was weighed down with all manner of savoury and sweet dishes, tall decanters of wine and jugs of beer sitting to the side, their rounded bellies pointed with reflected light. It was a splendid scene, not entirely real, but solid enough to give the impression of abundance and conviviality.

The newly woken Scrooge was summoned to this room and asked to sit by the figure who introduced himself as the Spirit of Christmas Present in the form of Father Christmas. Dickens then proceeded to speak to him about the meaning of Christmas.

He told of how the season celebrated across the country, from the houses of the very rich to the humbler dwellings of those who had very little. He spoke of the way in which the season brought people together, from the lord to the miner, the farmer to the lighthouse keeper. How it strengthened family ties, encouraged love and spiritual growth and fostered acceptance and understanding.

He described snowball fights between pink faced children, the cooking of Christmas meals in countless kitchens, the bounty of food, beautiful and wholesome, the drinking of toasts to happiness and wellbeing. He talked of family gatherings, games and singing, dancing and laughter. Much they saw and far they went, and many homes they visited in their minds’ eye, but always with a happy end. Scrooge, the childhood reader, who had not opened a book for pleasure in years, was pulled into the narrative as the author wove his spell. No-one had read to him since his mother’s sweet voice had lulled him into sleep in his cot, and he sat unmoving in his chair and welcomed the words in.

Scrooge was entranced, so much so that when Dickens turned to the question of the condition of the marginalised and disadvantaged, he followed willingly. This wielder of words gave his compassion to all, but nothing moved him to eloquence more than the condition of those least regarded and most in need of it.

From the night soil men to the little boys who swept the road crossings, from the women and men who worked the streets to the ragged beggars with missing limbs, old soldiers of forgotten campaigns, his telling phrases brought them all alive, and made them as fit a subject for a tale as any knight or hero. He spoke of those in want with such conviction, that Scrooge found his eyes once more damp with tears. Moved by the plight of the homeless sleeping rough on park benches, match girls freezing in doorways, the abused, the battered, the starving, the oppressed, Scrooge felt for them all and found his heart opening up to sympathies and feelings that he had not experienced for many years.

Aziraphale looked across at Scrooge, his face wrapt and almost sweet with his concentration, emotions flitting across his features as his heart beat to the rhythm of story. He turned to Crowley next to him and saw he too was leaning forward, his thin, clever face tense with concentration, chin in hand, listening. The angel’s own heart swelled with love and he smiled, and the room grew lighter with his happiness.

“Bloody hell, he’s good, angel,” Crowley looked at Aziraphale beside him, “humans tell the best stories.”

They sat, deliberately unnoticeable, in the room and listened to the writer speak, both as absorbed as the subject of their endeavour, transfixed in their turn by the narrative power of this teller of tales.

“Yes,” answered the angel after a time, “confident of his skills he may be, but it is with good reason. It never ceases to amaze me, how good they are at telling one tale whilst weaving another through it.”

***

***

Crowley raised his arms and was enveloped by a thick robe, like a monk’s cassock, of deepest black. He turned his head and gave Dickens a look, his eyes obscured by smoked glass inscrutable in the gloom of Scrooge’s hallway.

“I will go and speak to Mr Scrooge of what is to come, I feel we’ve had enough talk of Hell for one night.”

With that, he pulled the deep cowl of the black habit over his head and strode away from the writer and the angel, who stared after him.

“Thank you, Mr Dickens,” said Aziraphale, “for what you have done tonight, it was a tale well told, I believe. Come and sit, Crowley should not be too long, and then we can leave this place.”

The author looked at the angel sitting next to him. He was entirely human again in appearance, his eyes benevolent but nothing like the eternal oceans of understanding that they had been earlier. He looked tired even though he smiled pleasantly.

“You and, ahm, Mr Crowley, you are, what, friends?”

“Um, colleagues would be nearer the mark, but I suppose we are... friends, as well, yes.” The angel’s voice was gentle, and the blue-green eyes regarded him steadily.

“You…work together?”

“Yes, we do. It’s all about balance, Mr Dickens.”

“Balance?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, making a gesture with his hands that seemed to encompass the whole world and everything in it, “that which keeps everything turning as it should, the difference between the darkness and the light that allows us to tell the one from the other. The force that maintains the spaces between words in a poem or notes in a piece of music, without which everything is meaningless.”

Dickens nodded slowly, taking in what was being said, and Aziraphale continued, “You do it in your writing,sir, the tension you create between the different themes of your works. Strands that run in parallel or mirror one another that allow you to show what falls between them. As William Blake observed: _Opposition is true friendship_.”

"Strange indeed Mr Fell, for it seems to me...the way you look at him and he looks at you, it is almost as if there were more to it than that."

The angel blushed and looked down at the fingers twisting in his lap.

"I am sure I don't know what you mean, Mr Dickens."

The author smiled at the angel, knowingly. He did have an uncommon understanding of how people became attracted and came to need each other and had written of it often. Perhaps it was no different for other beings. The universe was, indeed, a very peculiar place but some things were constant verities. Love, for example.

There was a silence and suddenly Crowley was with them again, hips swinging as he turned to face the pair seated in the dingy hallway. Dickens noticed the angel’s countenance brighten as he addressed the other man, who was once more clad in the guise of sombre respectability, darkened glass at his eyes.

“Crowley? How was it, what did you see?”

“Nnnh, the usual ending when someone cares for money more than anything else. A lonely death, nobody to mourn him, his name held in no-one’s heart, you know the kind of thing,” the two faces looked at him, blankly, “well, take it from me, it’s not uncommon. Anyway, it’s done and I put the fear of Go-, of Sa-, of _sssomeone_ into him.”

Crowley took a few steps forward until he was standing in front of the author.

“Mr Dickens.”

“Mr Crowley.”

“Time for you to go home now, I think,” said the demon, removing his spectacles and fixing the writer with his dark honey coloured eyes. Dickens’ own eyes grew wider as noticed the narrow pupils and was drawn-in to that mesmerising gaze. If he had felt an edge of fear before, it was nothing to the icy sensation that slithered through his senses now, “but before you do, tell me,” the voice was thrilling, its strange harmonics vibrating into him, “why is it not possible to have an honest horse race these daysss?” He was not capable of answering, so Crowley continued, “because we haven’t an honest human race. Thank you, writer person, sleep well.”

There was a sharp noise and writer, angel and demon were gone. A few motes of dust sparkled in the air for a moment in the darkened house, and then all was still.

***

_Silent night, holy night…_

With Dickens on his way home, made oblivious as to where he had spent the the past few hours, the angel and demon were left alone. They stood in the orange glow of a street light, fog drifting around them, beading their hair and lashes with drops of moisture. It was quiet and felt like they were the only two people awake in the city. Aziraphale turned to face Crowley and moved closer so that they were almost touching.

“Thank you, my dear, for everything you have done tonight. What you said yesterday, it was so touching and so right; we are all each other’s keepers, otherwise the world falls apart; if we fail to care for each other, we have nothing.”

Crowley drew breath to make his usual denial of good intent but Aziraphale reached up and placed a warm finger against his lips. The angel looked up at him, his blue-green eyes huge, and Crowley saw that there was a tear in the bottom of each, threatening to spill over, held trembling next to the damp lashes.

The voice was low and gentle: “If I were ever to kiss anyone, this is how I would prefer it to be, I would prefer that it be you…”

Crowley had no time to register his surprise before the angel reached up and brushed his hand along his cheek, smoothing the russet hair there with his thumb, placing his fingers against the tender skin beneath his jaw to draw his face closer. His lips were almost shockingly warm in the cold night air. Crowley froze for a moment and then leaned in, the fingers of one hand pushing through the thick, soft curls above the angel’s nape, cupping the curve of his skull, the other hand reaching round Aziraphale’s body where his coat was unbuttoned, fingers skating past the buckle of the waistcoat and splaying against the smooth silk where his muscular back dipped, sweetly, pulling him close.The angel’s arms came around him, answering his embrace, hands placed flat against his shoulder blades, holding him firmly. His head tilted and Aziraphale responded, his face fitting against Crowley’s, and oh, the glorious heat of his mouth, the soft tongue against his, the smell of him, citrus and flowers and something of musk beneath, tantalising, provocative. Crowley was lost, warmth blooming in his chest and pooling in his stomach like molten gold, as their lips moved together, new and perfect, the ache of all he felt intensifying when the soft wetness of the angel’s teardrops fell upon his cheek.

There was a space, a few seconds, an age, a perfect time, in which there was the perfect kiss, and then it was over, and they drew back from each other. Crowley saw in Aziraphale’s eyes all that defined the best of him: tenderness, understanding and a hint of heat. Aziraphale raised his fingers to his lips, plump and pink with kissing and held them there a moment, as if cradling a secret.

“Oh, my dear, I…” he said, and his eyes changed, and all at once Crowley could read there all that caused him constant conflict: doubt, sadness and a hint of fear.

“Aziraphale, don’t…” Crowley began, but he knew it was too late, he recognised the signs, the angel had lost his nerve and was about to leave.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley…I didn’t mean… oh, dear, please forgive me…”

“Nothing to forgive, angel.” Crowley took off his spectacles and looked at the angel, allowing his feelings to show, for once.

Aziraphale met the gaze of those amber eyes, an expression of longing on his face, then broke eye contactto stare at the ground.

“I had better go. Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t see each other for a while now. I wish I could…”

He shook his head and then took Crowley’s hand and squeezed it, looking lost and very sad,

“Please take care, and mind how you go, my dear.”

He turned and was gone, swallowed up by the fog, the sound of his footsteps quickly becoming muted and then fading in the muffled silence of the night.

The next time Crowley saw him, to speak about work, the Arrangement, the angel was very buttoned up and although his words were kind and gentle, he hardly raised his eyes and would not look Crowley in the face. They spoke briefly and went their separate ways.

Crowley thought he could almost believe that it hadn’t been real, that beautiful kiss in the fog, that he had conjured it out of his own mind, a product of his most fervent hopes and desires. He treasured the memory and took what he needed to from it: the angel had feelings for him of some kind. He had to protect them both, he needed some insurance, something he could use against those who might be sent to deal with him. If he wasn’t able to get hold of it himself, and he would do his best, he could always, as a last resort, ask the angel to help him; surely he would understand and give him what he needed, wouldn’t he?

***

_Good Christian men rejoice…_

Aziraphale spentChristmas Day as he usually did, walking around London, dispensing blessings and minor miracles for the people he lived amongst. The work was a distraction but when he was walking, his heart beat to just one refrain:

_Crowley, Crowley, Crowley…_

He managed to concentrate properly on his Grace and the actions he was taking while he performed his offices, in fact, if anything, the way he was feeling made him more loving, softer, than he might otherwise have been. Despite being an ethereal creature, he was not immune to the effect that knowing one is very much in love has on anyone so afflicted. His countenance was gentle and there was a radiance about him as he moved amongst the people in the streets. Every so often, he raised his hand to his lips, as if to check that they were the same, not made anew by what they had dared to do, and the memory was a constant with him, the ghost of those other lips on his.

He was walking, such thoughts engrossing his mind when he heard a voice hailing him. He turned and saw none other than Ebenezer Scrooge, advancing towards him, arms outstretched

“My dear sir,” said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking Aziraphale by both his hands, “How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!”

“Mr Scrooge?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes,” said Scrooge, “that is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon, for yesterday, you know. And will you have the goodness to accept a donation now?” Scrooge fumbled in his coat, producing a bulging wallet and pulling a wad of notes from it, “take this, take all of it, and welcome.”

“My dear sir,” said Aziraphale, astonished, a bright smile rising on his face like spring sunshine, “ I don’t know what to say to such munificence.”

“Don’t say anything, please,” retorted Scrooge “I’m glad to do it, sir, very glad. Good day to you.”

“Good day to you, sir, and bless you.” said Aziraphale, raising his hat.

Remarkable, he thought to himself, it had worked, or something had, certainly. He walked on, marvelling that what they had set out to do had turned out well, despite everything.

The commendation arrived the next day along with a note from Gabriel. He received full recognition for what had been achieved and they clearly had no idea that he hadn’t been working alone. They were safe, for now.

Later he heard that Scrooge had paid for his clerk’s youngest son to attend a sanitarium and that the outlook for his recovery was good. He was pleased, he had fulfilled his purpose, and any other feelings that he might be having: the ache in his heart, the ever present edge of fear, would have to be tolerated as best he could.

Charles Dickens returned the books lent to him by the angel later in the New Year. Although Crowley had erased his memory as they were leaving Scrooge’s house, the author still looked at the proprietor of A. Z. Fell & Co. rather warily on his visit, and did not stay long. Aziraphale wondered if it was possible that the author had retained some memory of what had happened on that foggy night. A year later, he found out the answer to that question.

_***_

_***_

**Wilson Street, Finsbury Square, October, 1847**

Thomas Smith, confectioner to the Gentry, was suffering from an almighty hangover. He had spent most of the previous evening at an inn in Southwark with a tall gentleman, dressed entirely in black and wearing smoked glass spectacles who hadbought him drinks all night andkept on telling him awful jokes. All he could remember of that rowdy and convivial occasion now was the novel idea of a little exploding box with sweets, a joke and a paper hat inside, to be decorated with a foil wrapping and sold to people over the festive season. The name for this new product suggested by his riotous companion was ‘Bangs of Expectation’[1]. He loved the notion, they were bound to be popular, Christmas presented endless marketing opportunities to a man with vision. This, particularly, was a cracker of an idea. He set to work on developing how to manufacture them immediately. [2]

[1] They really were first marketed under this name.

[2] The Tom Smith company still makes crackers, they currently supply the Royal household with their festive requirements every year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go taking us up to date.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas 2018, 4 months after the Nahpocalypse. Aziraphale and Crowley are together on Christmas Eve, reminiscing about their Victorian adventures.

**A.Z. Fell & Co, Soho, 24th December 2018**

_All is calm, all is bright…_

The book shop was decorated for another Christmas. The tree stood in its usual place, glinting with its fragile glass decorations, some of which dated right back to that first tree in 1842. Paper chains hung from the pillars as before and paper balls, bells and lanterns of all colours were suspended from the ceiling. Aziraphale liked paper decorations and stuck with them, apart from a bit of tinsel on the tree, better for the environment, he would argue, if asked.

The door swung open and a blast of cold air entered along with a tall figure, laden with shopping bags.

“Angellll!”

Aziraphale looked up from the book he was flicking through and put it to one side, hurrying to Crowley’s side and taking two bags from him.

“I think I remembered everything; alcohol, chocolate, macarons, a different type of alcohol, miscellaneous crunchy things, cheese, grapes, tiny oranges, more alcohol, biscuits, cake and pudding…”

He set his bags down, “Is that everything we need, angel?”

Aziraphale placed his hands on Crowley’s hips, his fingers gently stroking the skin of his back beneath his shirt.

“I’ve got everything I need, right here,” he said, giving Crowley a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Nghh, Angel, stop it,” said Crowley, blushing.

“Oh, I nearly forgot!” he disengaged himself from the embrace and knelt to rummage in one of the bags of shopping, producing a brightly-coloured box.

“Will you pull a cracker with me, angel? I bought these just now. You know how I love a cracker at Christmas.”

“I thought you loved me all the year round, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled, cheekily, “Sorry, that was very poor, but not as bad as the jokes in the crackers, and I believe we have you to blame for that.”

“Yes, they were one of mine, a huge success even if I say so myself.” He opened the box and extracted one of the foil covered cylinders, “they cause more groans and irritation at Christmas than anything else apart from ‘batteries not included’. That was one of mine as well. Here, grab hold.”

He offered an end of the cracker to the angel and they each pulled until it flew apart with a louder than usual bang owing to a small demonic miracle that someone couldn’t resist.

“Oh, unfair, you always get the favours,” said Aziraphale, pulling a face of mock annoyance.

“Well, _duh_ , yeah, _demon_. You can have the paper hat, if you want.”

He smirked and the angel rolled his eyes at this notion while Crowley put his fingers into the half cardboard tube in his hand, fishing out a slip of paper.

“Anyway, here’s one; ‘What does a short-sighted ghost wear?’ Any idea, Angel?”

“I shudder to think what vile pun is about to fall from your gorgeous lips my darling. Go on, put me out of my misery.”

“ _Spooktacles_!”

“Oh, Good Lord, is there any beginning to your talents?”

“That’s what I like to hear, total horror. Job well done.”

*** 

Later the same evening, they were preparing to settle in for the night and watch a Christmas film on the giant flat screen telly that Crowley had conjured up for the occasion. Aziraphale was just putting his book down when Crowley came in from the back kitchen of the shop

“What're you reading, angel?” he said, sauntering over and putting two glasses of wine down on the table by the sofa

“This.” Aziraphale held up a small volume with a faded red cover. The words ‘A Christmas Carol’ surrounded by a wreath were embossed on the front of the book in gold.

“I was just remembering that night and thinking about what a lovely thing he made of it. I bought this as soon as it came out. I got such a shock when I started reading and realised.”

“It’s a bit of a mad fantasy, that one,” said Crowley, “people loved it though, didn’t they? I love what they have done with it since, there’s all sorts of weird versions out there.”

“Oh yes, I really like that film from the nineteen fifties, with that chap from Scotland, what’s his name? Alistair something.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, typical angel with his old fashioned sensibilities, preferring a _black and white_ film.

“Nah, Angel, it’s Muppets all the way for me, that’s the best one, with that bloke from the film with all the cars driving across the roofs in Turin, the one with that famous quote…”

“Please don’t do your Michael Caine impression, Crowley, you know how it pains me.”

"You’re no _fun_ , Angel.” Crowley sat next to the Aziraphale on the sofa and wrapped his arm about his shoulders, pulling him close, and the angel laid his head on his lover’s shoulder, looking at the book in his hands.

“He was very strong minded, old Charlie, must have been to be able to recall what happened after I got him to forget. Remember how he threatened you? He could be a bit of an arse, if I’m honest.” Crowley smiled at the face next to his.

“Yes, he was rather ruthless, and you would not stop tormenting him with those awful _jokes_. Still, he had a good heart though, he cared about people, and what a talent. I still remember how we all just sat there and listened to him.”

“Bit of a crazy night though, Angel, I thought we’d cocked it up completely at the time.”

“Indeed. I spent much of that night in a state of utter dismay, wondering how we were going to end what we had started, and the poor man cried so much, I felt terrible. If it hadn’t been for Dickens, I don’t believe that it would have worked out at all well. It was good though, despite everything, because you were there and we were working together…”

“You kissed me, Angel!“ Crowley kissed the top of his angel’s head, “it was perfect, and then I didn’t see you properly for years.”

“I haven’t forgotten that, I got a bit carried away. I had loved you for so long, and it was Christmas and everything felt so magical. It was unfair of me though, and I couldn’t believe it once I had done it. I was so confused.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, his eyes troubled, “And that day at the park, I’m so sorry I stormed off. When you told me what you wanted, I just thought… you seemed sad and frustrated so often, and I was frightened that you might leave me, and angry that you were asking me to give you the means to do it, I couldn’t bear any of it.”

Crowley looked pensive suddenly, remembering. They hadn’t really talked about this before.

“I was sad sometimes, yes, the suffering, especially the kids, it affected me, Angel, it was frustrating. London was so grim in those days, Dickens was right about that. But I would never have left you, or this place.” He wrapped an arm about Aziraphale’s middle and squeezed him gently, and the angel snuggled further into his shoulder. “It was after what you said, that you just saw me as me, that meant a lot. And then there was the kiss. I started thinking about what might happen if my lot found out about us”

“Every time I thought about being here without you, I used to panic, and then I would get into another panic about how inappropriate it was for me to be thinking like that, and then I would just sort of bounce between the two states of mind, it was exhausting.” Aziraphale frowned, his eyes misting over, remembering, “In the end it was simpler just to stay away from you and protect us both from the consequences of being seen with each other. It wasn’t just about my safety, I was concerned for you too, and I wanted to be able to stay here, for the people, all of them, that has always been supremely important to me.”

“Right from the beginning, I know, angel.” Their eyes met, remembering that first meeting.

“But this book, it was so successful for him. Did you ever go to the public readings he did of it, they were remarkable.”

“Yes, I did, Angel. I went there to remember that night, once I realised what the book was about.”.

“And it worked. I got a commendation for it, you know. By rights it should have been yours, or his…”

Crowley leaned and brushed his lips against his angel’s mouth, stopping his speech. He lingered there a while, pulling him close as they shared another, perfect kiss only breaking apart when they were both pink cheeked and breathless.

Crowley cupped one hand against his angel’s cheek and looked at him, lovingly, “Aziraphale, you do know now that I won’t leave you, not ever?”

Aziraphale looked back, his eyes full, “Yes, my dearest, I do now, after all we have been through,” he smiled, “and the feeling is mutual, obviously.”

Crowley grinned back, his face relaxed and carefree, eyes crinkling at the corners, “Obviously…”

Aziraphale leaned back to look at Crowley properly, expression brightening, “It’s our first Christmas together! It’s all going to be rather lovely,” he kissed Crowley again and he blushed.

“I love you, soft angel,” said Crowley, kissing him in return and making a small, happy sound as he did so, “Merry Christmas, ugh, can’t believe you’ve got me saying that!”

“Yes, soft and proud! I love you too, so much, my beautiful Crowley. Merry Christmas, my dear. I hope it is going to be the first of very many happy times together! ”


End file.
